


Mistake of the Shadow

by AelinSardothian



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: ;), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Apology sex is coming, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick almost dies, Dick still has a grudge against Bruce, Dirty Talk, Grand Theft, Identity Porn, Injury Recovery, It causes problems, Kidnapping, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Blood, Ransom, Sexual Humor, Slade doesn't know Dick's secret identity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29307072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AelinSardothian/pseuds/AelinSardothian
Summary: Dick learns that he should have shared his identity with Slade Wilson before tonight.  Because Deathstroke the Terminator has come to kidnap the heir to the Wayne fortune.  There will eventually be make up sex to make up for the fact that Slade kinda kidnapped and beat up his friend with benefits.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Minor Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne - Relationship
Comments: 43
Kudos: 400





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Identity Crisis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633307) by [withthekeyisking](https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking). 



> Hello! Slade doesn't know Dick's civilian identity and it kinda fucks Dick over. This first chapter is pretty PG, but the story is definitely going to evolve to match it's Explicit rating, as there will be some light torture (not the fun kind) and eventually make up sex. Thanks for reading!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Slade doesn't know Dick's civilian identity and it kinda fucks Dick over. This first chapter is pretty PG, but the story is definitely going to evolve to match it's Explicit rating, as there will be some light torture (not the fun kind) and eventually make up sex. Thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT: I can't believe i missed this the first go round, but this story is also inspired by the amazing withthekeyisking and you should totally! Check out their stories.

This gala fucking sucked. Dick would rather be literally anywhere else than this stuffy fundraiser being choked by some fancy tie and drowned by donors and partygoers looking to get into the bed of Bruce Wayne’s handsome, eligible son. Not that Dick was necessarily a bachelor, but no one, especially not Bruce knew about that. Frankly, Dick would rather be shot again than here at this boring gala.

At least he wasn’t alone though. Jason and Tim were mixed in with the black and white sea of people, suffering just as much as Dick was. He could see Jason pinned against a wall by an older woman decked in a dress that cost as much as a small town. His brother was desperately trying to shoo the woman away, but she definitely wasn’t taking the hint, laying her hand on Jason’s shoulder as she threw her head back in a fake laugh. Tim, on the other hand, was wooing some very rich businessmen, acting like the little future CEO he was.

Done with his current bout of conversation, Dick made his platitudes to his own little crowd and broke free to make his own over to the open bar.

“Gin and tonic,” Dick requested with a full smile at the bartender. He leaned back against the bar on his elbows, watching the crowd mill about. Mostly to watch out for any hungry guests looking to get on his good side. Or into his bed.

The clink of glass and ice tinkled in the back of his head, but the ding of his cellphone overpowered it. Dick fished out his phone from where it was stuffed in the pocket of his slacks. He ran a finger over the embossed logo of the phone protector company. He’d purchased it after he’d managed to break the screen of his cellphone for the seventh time out on patrol. So far, his phone has survived two-gun fights and a nasty fall from three stories up.

Dick swiped the lock screen, finding a text message brightening his screen. His lip twitched up as he saw Slade’s message, his number saved under ‘Unknown.’ Slade was in town. That was all the message said, which usually meant Slade either had a contract or he was just here for Dick. In both meanings of the term.

He would _much_ rather be with Slade right now, either fighting him in the streets or doing something just as sweaty in the bedroom. But Bruce had demanded they all stay till at least midnight. This gala wasn’t being hosted by the Wayne company, but they’d been missing from the public scene for a while, due to a few nasty fights that resulted in some broken limbs on the whole family—blamed on a freak parasailing accident from their ‘trip’ to Chile.

Slade never expected a reply, so Dick left him on read. After this gala, Dick would dig out his bike and don his Nightwing costume before going sniffing for Slade. He’d have to make sure his domino was extra secure this go around—it almost fell off last time he and Slade had been sparring. Dick had rushed with the skin glue in his eagerness.

Despite their more than intimate relationship, Dick had never revealed his identity to Slade. Not that the assassin didn’t want to know or had his methods of finding out, but Dick had never wanted to go that far. It was too dangerous. It didn’t matter that Dick knew Slade’s identity, the man was wanted on four continents. Dick’s identity was just off limits.

Dick slipped his phone away, nodding thanks as the bartender handed him his drink. Maybe Dick would leave the gala early—his skin was itching now that he knew Slade was in town. Yeah—Dick smiled to himself—he was gonna start some major shit tonight with Slade. He always fucked him better when Dick had been annoying.

Dick sipped at his drink, watching, amused, as Jason tried to keep that older woman’s hand off his ass. His little white streak was slicked back with the rest of his jet-black hair, which put his rugged, scowling face on full display. Jason was probably just as twitchy as Dick was, stuffed into a suit and forced into a room with more than two people. Greedy, grabby people. Jason was extra pissed because the girls hadn’t had to join them.

Dick twitched at the sound of glass—but it wasn’t the bartender clinking together glasses. No, there it was again. It was duller, more the sound of something thick on windows. Like rain but heavier, and oh so quiet. Especially below the lulling drone of the gala guests speaking and mingling. And again, there. It was raining tonight, the sound distantly cacophonous on the high ceiling, but—there, the dissonance was picking at a nerve in Dick’s ear. 

Dick tilted his head back, pushing off the bar. Across the ballroom, Jason, Tim, and Bruce did the same. He could see the rain pattering on the grand glass ceiling of the gala hall. It was dark outside, pouring rain and with the lights of the hall, Dick could barely see a thing. But there was the thud, like someone had slipped and landed a heavy foot. Dick set his glass on the bar, pushing away.

Another thud.

Jason and Dick made eye contact across the room. None of them were carrying weapons tonight. Bruce had forbidden it. Another thud.

Dick lunged for Jason just as the glass ceiling crashed, raining shards down upon the party goers. Screams echoed through the halls as the sound of thunder and the wash of rain blew into the room. Black clad bodies on rappeler lines were coming down too, just on the edges of the hall to surround the crowd as they brandished semi-automatics. And Dick was just about the plunge into the panicking mass of people when a final thud of boots landed just behind him. A steel armored arm wrapped itself around Dick’s throat before he could so much as turn his head. His hands flew to the forearm pressed against his throat, snarl on his lips.

“Move, and I’ll snap your neck.”

Dick went cold at the iron clad tone, whispered against his ear. Oh no.

“Members of the one percent!” Deathstroke the Terminator shouted in a booming voice across the hall, silencing the screams with a few bullets in the air. Everyone’s attention was now on Richard Grayson and Deathstroke the Terminator. “We interrupt your evening with a special message: remove all jewels, wallets, loose cash, and other symbols of obscene wealth from your person and hand them to my friends conveniently placed around the room.”

Nobody moved for several moments, the sheer absurdity of the situation paralyzing them, the rain soaking Dick and half the populace to the bone. When the paralysis persisted, Deathstroke yanked Dick flush with his chest and he felt the cool barrel of a handgun press against his temple. “Now!”

Deathstroke’s demand pushed everyone into action, even his family. Who were all glaring daggers at the assassin, but circumstance and society rendered them nothing more than a billionaire and his three harmless, trust fund sons. The sound of necklace clasps and tinkling jewels was drowned out by the terrified muttering and rushing of the rain from the many holes in the roof. Dick flexed his neck, the rain plastering his hair to his face.

He knew he could get out of Deathstroke’s hold— _really_ wanted to in fact, but couldn’t, not without jeopardizing his identity. If some hapless playboy showed off military and Justice League caliber fighting skills, against _Deathstroke_ , it wouldn’t be long before someone put two and two together. And that not only fucked Dick, it fucked his entire family and possibly many of the League.

Shit.

The man behind him was not Slade right now, not the man who had a long, close, very complicated relationship with the cape, Nightwing. No, this was a world class assassin on a contract with _no idea_ that the useless college frat boy in his grip was in fact the man he’d been fucking on and off for the past half decade. Dick could scream.

But he remained perfectly still, breathing through his nose as the crowd stripped themselves of their affects and loaded the black duffel bags being carried by the rest of Deathstroke’s team. It was highly unlikely that Deathstroke was just here to rob an upper-class party—he could make that money in one solo job. The assassin was not one to work with teams. And the fact that Deathstroke had snatched Dick up as a hostage was probably no accident. No, Deathstroke was much smarter than that.

_Fuuuuuckkk._

This wasn’t just a robbery.

This was a kidnapping.

Dick jerked once, testing his theory. The fact that he didn’t immediately die all but proved it. But Deathstroke did press the barrel of his gun harder against his temple, tightened the arm against his throat.

“I said not to move, kid. This is almost over,” Slade muttered against his cheek.

Dick’s fingers tightened on the cool armor, non-descript—not Deathstroke’s painfully recognizable costume. “Doubt it,” Dick growled, increasingly annoyed.

“You gonna be a pain in my ass, boy?” Deathstroke pressed his forearm just tight enough against Dick’s throat that he went lightheaded for a moment before releasing. Dick sucked in a breath, but said no more. By that time, the other members of Deathstroke’s team were zipping up their bags, gripping their rappels. 

Deathstroke’s voice boomed once more across the hall. “Thank you all for your cooperation,” Deathstroke’s arm moved from Dick’s throat to around his ribs, “If anyone follows us, the boy gets a bullet between the eyes.” The shock of the statement rippled through the crowd like ice. “Have a nice night.”

Deathstroke’s arm tightened a second before his rappel line was retracting and Dick scrambled to throw his arms around the man’s neck as his feet were rapidly lifted from the floor. Skyrocketing him up into the freezing rainstorm and onto the roof. Deathstroke tossed him over the edge of the broken glass ceiling onto solid ground. Sputtering, Dick sprang up on his feet moments later, the other thugs popping up shortly behind them.

Deathstroke followed seconds later, flipping his gun so he grasped the barrel instead of the handle.

“Nothing personal, kid,” Deathstroke intoned, raising the pistol.

Dick put up his hands, trying to back away. But there was nowhere to go. “Wait, wait—”

The world went black as Deathstroke cracked the handle of his pistol upside Dick’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is definitely going to be Explicit follow up chapters, I promise <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too long of a wait for that last cliffhanger. Who thought Dick died? Anyway, here's Dick being a shit like he wanted, but not in the way he wanted. And another cliffhanger for you <3

The throbbing in Dick’s head is what ultimately woke him up. Dick didn’t think he’d drank that much but the headache was telling him otherwise. A quiet breath in through his nose wiped the notion of a hangover out of his head. The smell was all wrong. This was not the fresh linens and lavender soap smell of his bedroom at Wayne Manor. Nor was it the hard plastic and stale papers of his apartment in Blüdhaven.

The exact origin of his headache was starting to shift back into focus and he tried not to groan. Dick remained relaxed, hoping Deathstroke hadn’t noticed he’d woken up. Or whoever was watching him. Minutely, he flexed his wrists, finding handcuffs lashed tight behind him, barely enough room to move. Richard Grayson might be a know-nothing civilian, but it looked like Deathstroke wasn’t sloppy. With more of his senses returning to him, Dick was able to feel himself sat in a chair, and a twitch of his ankle revealed that Deathstroke _really_ wasn’t sloppy. Ropes were wrapped from his ankles to his shins, attaching his legs to the chair.

This was not looking good.

There were quiet foot shuffles swimming around Dick’s ears, only one pair though. Echoing off walls faint enough to tell Dick he was in an apartment, probably, versus a warehouse or interrogation room with sound proof walls. That usually meant they weren’t going to outright kill him and dump his body on Bruce’s doorstep. Good prospects. 

Ice cold water crashed over him, and his eyes flew open with a gasp, sputtering.

“Rise and shine, beauty queen.” It was Slade—Deathstroke. Dick shook his head like a wet dog, blinking water out of his eyes as he looked up at the man. He was dressed in his Deathstroke uniform now, the whole get-up absorbing the very dim overhead lights. His black and orange mask secure over his face. Another good sign—keeping his face hidden was good for Dick’s survival rate. At the gala, he’d been wearing a non-descript mask, clothes. But now, Slade was decked out in his expensive, bulletproof armor and armed to the teeth with his usual retinue. 

Katana, hand guns, knives, what looked like a taser gun. Dick ripped his eyes away from the weapons, hoping he’d come off as scared and shocked rather than calculating. Assessing. 

Dick on the other hand had been stripped of his loafers, his tux jacket and the silver chain bracelet that just happened to have a tracking device in it. Knowing Deathstroke though, he would have dumped or destroyed the stuff, for caution’s sake.

“Where am I?” His chest heaved, body beginning to shiver. Dick was glad for the ice water dripping down into his underwear now. It made his voice tremble.

“Tucked away where the cops will never find you unless I want them to,” Deathstroke replied, setting the ice bucket down.

Dick sniffed, shaking his head again to get the water dripping into his eyes. “Why am I here?”

Slade shrugged. “Leverage.”

He squirmed beneath his restraints. “For what?”

“Simple ransom.”

“So, the neck snapping threat was all for show then?” Dick smirked between spitting out water.

The smirk didn’t last long as the back of Deathstroke’s gloved hand cracked into his cheek. The taste of copper filled Dick’s mouth and he spit the pooling blood and spit onto the floor of the room. “Don’t get smart with me.”

Dick took a breath. “I’m only here for my looks then?”

That earned Dick another back hand, not quite as hard though. Slade liked a little back talk—respected when his victims weren’t sniveling little cowards. Dick spit up even more blood from his split cheek.

“Hopefully I’m not ruining your floors,” Dick quipped, glancing at Deathstroke out of the corner of his eye as he wiped his mouth against his shoulder.

“You a masochist, boy?” Deathstroke sounded more interested than annoyed. He crossed his arms across his chest, watching Dick man-spread as much as he could with restrained legs. Dick was mostly being a shit because on the inside he was panicking. He didn’t know how the fuck to get out of this situation without revealing his identity to a world-class assassin with ties to the League of Shadows and fucking himself over in the process. So, he was just reverting to hostilely flirting with his captor.

“Depends. Are you a sadist?”

That got Deathstroke to chuckle, his shoulders to relax a little. “Look, kid. The end goal here is to get you back to your Daddy in one piece.” Dick arched an eyebrow, pointedly licking his bloody lips. “I wasn’t barred from leaving a few bruises,” Deathstroke amended. “Nor breaking a few bones if I have to. So, I suggest you behave and hopefully negotiations go quickly.”

Dick leaned back in his chair, jutting his chin. “Are you the one doing the negotiations?”

Deathstroke tilted his head, and Dick could practically see the narrowing of Slade’s eye. “No,” Deathstroke drawled, pulling out a chair at the opposite side of the table sitting beside Dick. He plopped down with a clatter of weapons.

“Who then? If you’re allowed to tell me,” Dick teased. Slade did not enjoy having authority lorded over him, but he wasn’t stupid. But maybe Dick was just charming enough that he’d throw him a bone and drop some information.

“A third party,” Deathstroke deadpanned, propping a foot on the table. 

“Were the jewels and cash just an added bonus, then?”

Deathstroke shrugged. “Distraction. A bunch of whiny, rich people would have been inundating the police with panicked calls and demands that they find their precious possessions. Meanwhile, I got away with you while GPD is spread thin across the city looking for a bunch of dumbasses with bags full of rocks.”

Dick inhaled, nodding his head as he looked about the dimly lit room. There wasn’t much outside of the table, chairs, a wardrobe, a ratty couch, and a small kitchenette. “Smart. So, is there like, an ETA on when I can go home? I need to do my skincare regime before I start breaking out.”

Dick could imagine Slade’s smirk beneath the mask. “That I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t.”

Slade tsked. “Can’t. Now shut up before I gag you.”

“And the kinks just keep coming.” Deathstroke was up in a flash, boots thudding on the ground and had Dick’s chin between his fingers in a second. The orange and black of his mask glittered menacingly in his face.

“Don’t push your luck,” Deathstroke growled. He tossed Dick’s head to the side and the rip of duct tape rattled through the room. Dick tried to prevent exactly what he knew was coming, pushing up on his toes to tilt the chair back, thrashing his head to and fro. But Deathstroke was strong and powerful and pinned the chair back against the table before grabbing hold of Dick’s jaw. Deathstroke’s other hand clapped over Dick’s mouth, sealing the strip of duct tape to his lips and cheeks.

Deathstroke jerked away, Dick’s chair smacking back to the floor. Dick glared, pulling against his handcuffs with a rattle of the chain.

“You asked for it, kid,” was Deathstroke’s reply, setting the roll of tape on the table top. Dick stared at it, trying and failing to come up with an idea that would make the roll useful. Instead, he fell back in his chair, huffing indignantly through his nose.

What the actual fuck was Dick supposed to do here?

Hope that Bruce or his brothers would eventually find him? Reveal his identity?

No. No, Dick took in a steadying breath, shaking the water from his eyes once more. He could get out of this. Dick just needed to wait for the right opportunity.

* * *

The apartment Dick was being held in apparently wasn’t in an abandoned building, since the doorbell rang after a few hours of being lashed to his chair. Deathstroke had been lounging on the couch, a small tablet flashing its light on the ceiling while Dick stewed. His arms had fallen asleep at this point, uncomfortably filled with static and his legs were well on their way as well. Dick tried shaking some feeling into his hands as Deathstroke went to answer the door.

A minute later, Deathstroke was setting down generic takeout boxes of food. The Styrofoam ones with the smiley faces on them. Nothing that could help Dick identify where he was. Deathstroke settled once more in the chair across from Dick and cracked open what smelled like chow mein. His mouth watered behind the duct tape as he watched Deathstroke tilt his mask up to his nose, just enough to reveal his mouth.

Then, staring straight at Dick, he began to eat his food.

His stomach growled, loud enough for both of them to hear. It had been almost midnight when Deathstroke had kidnapped him, and who knew how long he’d been out, but it had to be at least close to breakfast time by now, if not later. The blacked-out windows gave him no sense of time. Deathstroke smirked.

“Hungry?”

Dick just glared, head bowed.

“I suppose I could feed you,” Deathstroke mused, poking around in his takeout box with cheap wooden chopsticks. “But then again, I don’t _have_ to, seeing as the human body can last up to twenty-one days without food.”

Dick jerked in his chair, grunting behind his gag.

“You’re right,” Deathstroke continued, taking another bite of food. “You’d probably just get more annoying if I starved you. Little silver spoon like you probably hasn’t gone more than four hours without something served up on a platter for you.”

Dick blew a harsh breath through his nose, eyes narrowing. Frankly, Dick needed to go to the bathroom more than eat. But he was not about to tell Deathstroke that. Not when the assassin would probably watch him go the bathroom. There was a very telling scar dug into the top of his thigh that Slade had paid special attention to last time they’d been together. And it would be a dead give away when Dick dropped his pants.

Also, Deathstroke making assumptions about his cushy life was agitating more than it should be. Dick had never told Slade about his non-hero past, obviously, so he wouldn’t know. But Dick was also tired, and hungry, and cold from the ice water still chilling his skin, and needed to pee badly. So, the taunts coming out of Deathstroke’s mouth that just reaffirmed the persona Dick really needed to keep up were digging deeper than usual.

Dick wasn’t a stupid, useless, playboy. He was dangerous and skillful and strategic. And he’d beaten Deathstroke in a fight more times than Slade was probably comfortable admitting.

“Your aura’s getting a bit dark there, kid.” Deathstroke leaned forward, setting his takeout down to rip off the strip of duct tape. It stung peeling off, and Dick didn’t have to worry about shaving for a while since he could feel his stubble being snatched out. Dick turned his head when it was off, staring at the drapes as he stretched his jaw. Feeling a sudden wash of anger, so red that Dick couldn’t stand to look at Deathstroke.

“Tired,” Dick muttered. “Getting kidnapped is a lot of work.”

“Tell me about it,” Deathstroke’s tone had gone from condescending and conversational to quiet. Unreadable.

Dick continued staring at the wall, the smell of food shut out as he tried to quell the very irrational anger building.

“You throwing a tantrum now?” Deathstroke prodded, feet planting firmly on the ground, but he remained seated. Dick knew Deathstroke was interested now. But Dick had _no_ interest in engaging right now, not with the heat simmering beneath his chest.

Deathstroke’s comments were verging on how Bruce used to treat him. As Robin and even Nightwing in the beginning—no one had taken Dick seriously. He hadn’t been a credible threat, and every villain from Gotham to Blüdhaven to Jump City had laughed at Dick until he’d knocked them on their ass and thrown them in prison. He’d sat in Bruce’s—Batman’s shadow for years until he’d built up his reputation as Nightwing. And the only person who _had_ taken Dick seriously, who had taken an interest in _him_ and his skills was sitting across from him.

“Is this the silent treatment?”

Dick inclined his head, determinedly staring at the wall. Even if his breathing was slightly elevated. “Fuck off.”

The screech of Deathstroke’s chair tingled in Dick’s ears. He didn’t bother looking as Deathstroke circled Dick’s chair. One of Dick’s cuff unlocked, and Dick lunged, twisting to snatch one of Deathstroke’s guns from his hip holster. And because Deathstroke thought Dick was some stupid little boy, he got it. Got the safety off and cocked a bullet into the chamber with the barrel pointed at Deathstroke’s chest.

It was a little awkward, with his legs still lashed to the chair, but he had enough standing to keep Deathstroke squarely at the end of the gun, the cuffs dangling silver in the dim light. Only now was the surprise trickling in—the fact that Deathstroke had even undone the cuffs momentarily seemed like a misstep. Deathstroke didn’t make missteps. And it didn’t seem like Dick was the only one surprised.

The assassin had his arms spread out, not up but away from his body enough to let Dick know Deathstroke deemed him somewhat of a threat.

“You know how to use that, kid?” Deathstroke said, and Dick could hear the shift. The realization that this dumb, pampered kid might be more of a problem than he’d originally anticipated.

“I’m the son of a rich, white man. What do you think?” Dick growled, tightening his double-handed grip. 

He knew this display wasn’t going to go anywhere. Dick couldn’t display as much skill as he needed to get completely out of this, not enough to fight Deathstroke when he inevitably swiped the handgun from his grip. But like Dick had said—he was tired, hungry, and frustrated. He wanted to just tell Deathstroke so this stupid pretense could fade away and he could leave, but there was no guarantee Slade would let him go once he found out. And no guarantee that the assassin would keep the secret once Dick gave it to him. 

“Now untie me,” he demanded, voice gravelly. Deathstroke’s mask had fallen back over his chin, covering the man’s mouth, so Dick had no gauge as to his reaction. And reading Slade’s body language had never been his strong suit.

Dick knew the move before Deathstroke made it, and there wasn’t anything Dick could do to stop it. Not as Richard Grayson anyway.

Deathstroke knocked a hand into Dick’s wrist, the gun flying from his grip as that hand closed around Dick’s forearm and twisted. Forcing Dick to face forward and pinning Dick’s arm painfully against his back. Dick arched, hissing a curse as Deathstroke stepped flush against him over the chair back. The metal of Deathstroke’s mask was cold against Dick’s sore cheek.

“Try something like that again, and it’ll be something much worse than this,” Deathstroke snarled into his ear. Dick bared his teeth just before Deathstroke tightened his pin. His shoulder _snapped._ Dick muffled a scream, fire flushing through his dislocated shoulder. Deathstroke’s grip fell away as he bent double, cradling his arm against his chest. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, static roaring in his ears even as Deathstroke yanked his wrists out and clicked the cuffs back in place.

“Fuck you,” Dick wheezed. Deathstroke shoved Dick back into his chair, the wood groaning beneath him.

“Shut up and eat your fucking food,” Deathstroke replied, settling back in his own chair. “And maybe I’ll relocate your shoulder.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick escapes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck, my blood was PUMPING writing the end of this chapter. Hopefully I conveyed my very vivid fever dream well and you get to panic as much as poor Dick.

Dick didn’t eat his food. Not for a few minutes at least, forehead lent on the end of the table as he waited for the world to stop spinning. His shoulder throbbed. Dick could pop it back into place if he wanted to, was on the verge of doing so. The only thing that stopped him was whether or not he could explain away his pain tolerance and his ability to relocate his own shoulder. But as he breathed through the searing pain, he decided he didn’t particularly care.

Taking a deep breath, and slowly blowing it out, Dick gripped his wrist. And before he could rethink it— _popped_. Tapping his forehead lightly against the table helped keep Dick from passing out and he groaned out the rest of his breath. Deathstroke’s gaze remained squarely on Dick as he sat up, aching relief bleeding through his shoulder and collarbone. Oddly, the pain brought some clarity to Dick’s red-washed mind and a smirk settled back on his lips as he reached forward to grab the takeout box plopped in front of him.

His shoulder still hurt, need to be put in a sling eventually, as he leaned back in his chair once more, returning Deathstroke’s gaze. Dick took a triumphant bite.

“Seems I don’t need you for everything.” Dick said it around his mouthful of food, tamping down the remaining irrationality. Cursing himself only minutely, because that outburst and the injured shoulder meant that Deathstroke would be watching Dick more closely now. Which cut Dick’s chances of escape by about half. Even if his chances at the beginning had been slim, they’d been existent. Now they were as wispy as a strand of hair. Dick sighed into his food at the stupidity of his circumstances.

Deathstroke still hadn’t resumed eating—Dick could practically hear the turn of the man’s thoughts. It was cautiously calculating. Dick wanted to finish eating in peace, so he kept his snarky retort to himself and scarfed down the takeout. It was actually pretty good, and he was hungry enough that eating kept his mind away from the dull throb persisting in his shoulder every time he shifted around the cuffs to get the chopsticks into his mouth.

He deliberated on sneaking a chopstick into his sleeve, but so soon after pulling a gun on his captor—he might end up with a broken ankle if Deathstroke happened to count the chopsticks and find one missing. So, when he was finished, Dick tossed the carton back on the table along with the chopsticks. He leaned back with a sigh, adjusting his arm into a comfortable position.

“You gonna stare at me all day?” Dick grumbled, finding that his chair was now supremely uncomfortable instead of just really shitty, now that Deathstroke had dislocated his shoulder.

“You’ve suddenly gotten less boring.” That was the end of Deathstroke’s input, and as much as Deathstroke would ever indicate that he actually found Dick _very_ interesting in this moment.

“How generous,” Dick drawled, head lolling back as he closed his eyes. And he didn’t open them as Deathstroke’s boots scuffed the floor. He felt the man’s presence in front of him, gaze fixed on Dick’s face. Slade liked to stare at him after they’d finished, had told Dick he wanted to peel the last little bit of his cape away, glued to his face. Dick always refused the few times Slade had asked, and Slade seemed comfortable with dropping it. But Dick knew it was an itch the assassin always wanted to scratch.

Dick jerked upright, quickly obscuring his profile but Deathstroke was reaching forward, wrapping his gloved hands around the back of the chair and deadlifting him along with it. Two steps over, and Deathstroke was dropping the chair beside the couch. The jolt sent a shock through Dick’s shoulder, and he pinned his arms against his chest in an effort to get the throbbing to stop.

“What the fuck was that for, asshole?” Dick groaned, clutching his shoulder.

Deathstroke nodded to the couch behind Dick. “You want to sleep or not?”

Glancing at the ratty couch, it looked a lot better than the prospect of sleeping tied and cuffed to a chair. Dick scowled. If he was to attempt an escape from Deathstroke, as Richard Grayson, he needed his rest—because it was going to take even more effort now than if he could just slip into his Nightwing persona.

“Fine.”

“I can leave you in the chair, if that’s what you really want.”

Narrowing his gaze, Dick bared his teeth. “No, I want the couch.” Sullen child—Dick needed to pull out the sullen child act and lay it on heavy. Annoy Deathstroke so much that the presence of Dick as a threat got fuzzy in the background. The ropes were undone within seconds and Dick was dumped unceremoniously on the couch. His shoulder twinged in response to the rough handling. Then Deathstroke was yanking his legs up in the air by his ankles, Dick’s torso sliding onto the cushions of the couch. “Woah, woah, woah…” Dick protested, half panic and half flirt.

“Shut up unless you want the duct tape back,” Deathstroke snapped, shifting both of Dick’s bare ankles into one hand as he drew out a set of zip tie cuffs. Those weren’t easy to get out of. Deathstroke stuck each of Dick’s feet through a cuff and yanked on the tie. The cuffs tightened with a deafening zip and Deathstroke dropped his feet to the ground with a thump.

Dick muffled a groan, blinking against the white in his eyes.

“What, no blanket?” Dick tried, rolling half on his side.

“No,” Deathstroke said gruffly. He turned away from Dick, whose bottom half sprawled off the couch and who looked like a discombobulated noodle. Ignoring the sharp stabbing of his shoulder, Dick wriggled back onto the couch so his legs were propped up. The couch was barely long enough for him to stretch out. 

Sleep would definitely help his situation. Obviously, he didn’t have a concussion, but he hadn’t actually slept for what had to be at least thirty hours—Dick had been on patrol the night before the gala and hadn’t managed to sleep more than thirty minutes before he was called into the BPD in Blüdhaven. And on top of everything, now he had a relocated shoulder that was already swelling and stiffening as the joint rushed to protect itself. Alongside a few blooming bruises on his cheeks.

Dick had definitely screwed his chances of escaping today, and Deathstroke apparently wasn’t going to kill him—circumstances withstanding. Negotiations could go sour very quickly, but not this soon. The risk of having his neck snapped while he slept was low. So, some sleep would do Dick good. Even if it was with his hands cuffed in front of him and legs zip tied together. He’d figure it out when he woke up, whenever that was.

Dick squirmed around so he was facing the back of the couch, laying on his good shoulder, and closed his eyes. Hoping he didn’t die in his sleep via a bullet from Deathstroke’s gun.

Well, he hadn’t died that night, but Dick was really beginning to panic. It had been somewhere close to three days since he’d woken up tied to a chair. And keeping company with Slade as Deathstroke was much less fun than with Slade as Slade. Dick kept up his sullen, injured child act, not daring to pull anything when Deathstroke had him so thoroughly locked up and did not again make the mistake of giving Dick even an opportunity to cause trouble.

Eventually, Dick had had to go to the bathroom but he’d managed to scream and whine enough that he could get Deathstroke to turn around while he did, though the door stayed open. It was a little difficult, with the legs and handcuffs but Dick managed. Deathstroke, after that first night, had stashed his weapons where Dick hadn’t seen, but left on his armor. Slade could always sleep in anything.

They ate a retinue of takeout and dry non-perishable snacks stashed in the kitchenette. And Dick kept up his annoying, whiny dialogue. When was he going home? Why was this couch so uncomfortable? Couldn’t Dick pee in peace? But nothing to raise suspicion again. Dick was allowed to sleep on the couch and Deathstroke always sat in the chair across from the couch and propped his feet on the dinky little coffee table. To pass the time, Dick just bickered with Deathstroke when he could, but it was mostly silence.

At least Deathstroke opened the curtains onto windows taped up with newspaper at one point, letting in some light. And, Dick had found out this stupid couch had springs in it. He’d been quietly whittling away at it last night post-discovery. It was just loose enough that Dick could yank it out now, but he wasn’t going to risk it when Deathstroke was watching him so closely.

Dick was in the middle of thinking about his comfortable bed back at Wayne Manor and how he’d never take Alfred’s linen washing for granted again when Deathstroke’s phone rang. Dick had had no idea that Deathstroke even had a phone on him.

“Yeah,” Deathstroke said, rubbing a spot on his armor. A muffled voice on the other end had Deathstroke’s masked face zeroing in on Dick with intense precision. Dick burned beneath the weight of his attention and sat up ramrod straight. Maybe the negotiations had finally ended—but Dick had a sinking feeling in his gut. If it was just money they’d wanted, Dick would have been home hours after the fact. And the way Deathstroke’s shoulders were tightening was not a good sign for Dick’s lifespan.

“That wasn’t the deal,” Deathstroke replied. The muffled voice spoke again as Deathstroke stood. The assassin shoved Dick flat against the couch’s back as he walked past. “Don’t move,” Deathstroke ordered as he disappeared into the only other room in this apartment. Most likely where he’d stashed his weapons.

Dick did exactly the opposite and lunged for the loose spring in the couch, stuffing his hand between torn fabric, heart in his throat. His pulse raced, adrenaline flooding his body as his window of time closed very rapidly. He yanked out the spring, jagged metal end glinting. With a quick snap, Dick dislocated his thumb, suppressing the quiet grunt, and slipped the handcuffs off. He then stuck the couch spring—too big to pick the handcuffs—in the locking mechanism of the zip tie cuffs around his ankles. His fingers were sweaty, but steady.

He shook off the ankle cuffs in seconds and threw himself at the far window. Hopefully they weren’t too far up, because Dick was throwing himself out of this fucking thing no matter what. The shitty window opened with a sickening creak, and the sound of Deathstroke’s boots were like death knells in his ears. Dick tossed himself through the window but a gunshot rang out, and fire licked up his leg.

Not his femoral artery, he’d been moving too fast for Deathstroke to hit it, so nothing serious.

“God damn it.” Deathstroke’s frustrated growl echoed in Dick’s ears as he flung himself all the way out the window. Some god, maybe Diana, was watching over him because he landed on a blessed fire escape. The building from the outside was shitty, rundown and no more than four stories. And it had a beautiful, rusty fire escape. Deathstroke’s boots pounded in Dick’s head again and his heart jumped as he tumbled over the edge of the fire escape.

Free falling for a story before he caught the bars of the fire escape a floor down with a scream. His dislocated thumb did not like that. His shoulder was stiff and bruised and swollen beyond belief but he didn’t let it buckle. Dick dropped the last two stories, bare feet landing on the ground. He could hear Deathstroke clambering onto the fire escape and bolted down the street like his fucking life depended on it. 

Most of the surrounding buildings were abandoned, so screaming wouldn’t help. Deathstroke forewent the fire escape entirely and dropped the four stories down to the street. Dick felt it like a hot poker in his back, adrenaline tightening his throat. Dick put on a burst of speed, zig zagging now, since Deathstroke had made it clear guns were now an option.

He bolted past crumbling buildings, passing in a blur and panic fueled haze. He didn’t even fucking now where he was. Dick glanced behind him, breath burning cold through his lungs, and found Deathstroke way too fucking close on his tail.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dick breathed, looking around as wind tore past him, ripping any sound from his already pounding ears. No one was around, he had no fucking idea where he was, so his best chance was to run. None of these god damn buildings had any good access points to jump up. The blood leaking from his thigh was leaving a fucking trail. _Fuck!_

Dick slid around a corner, barely keeping his feet, the faint sound of a car horn beckoning hope. He ran towards that, even as he heard the encroaching pound of Deathstroke’s boots behind him. Closer and closer. So Dick ran and ran. The sun was out but it was overcast, bright enough that he couldn’t use city lights as a guiding star. Where the fuck was he?

His back prickled, painfully aware of how close his death was as he dipped into an alley, knocking over trashcans and crates and palates as he went in an effort to put some space between him and the bullet with his name on it. Fuck, if he got out of this alive, he was going to scream at Slade for how fucking terrifying he was.

Dick burst out of the alley, into a part of town that looked less abandoned. He screamed, hurdling down the sidewalk. Another fire escape, there, low enough that Dick could jump. Boots and clattering told him Deathstroke was still too close. Pushing himself, Dick aimed for that fire escape—he was faster on roofs anyway.

Hope was within reach, the color of rusted black metal. Dick leaped, his momentum throwing him forward and up. He smacked into the fire escape hard enough his brain rattled but that didn’t matter. Hope was cold and hard beneath his palms, and he was climbing a rung. Another and another—

Until hard fingers snatched his ankle and yanked him off the fire escape, slamming him into the ground with enough force to tilt the world.

And then he was looking down the barrel of Deathstroke’s gun, the assassin panting and slipping his finger on the trigger.

“Slade, wait!” Dick screamed, blood roaring in his ears, “Wait it’s me! It’s Nightwing!”

Deathstroke’s finger didn’t move from the trigger, but he didn’t shoot Dick. Which was good.

“What.”

Suddenly a beam of red slammed into Slade’s chest, blasting him hundreds of feet back down the street. The pavement screeched beneath Slade’s armor and Dick whipped around to find Superman floating mere feet from where Dick was propped on his elbows. When Dick looked back down the street, Slade was gone. At the sight of the familiar yellow, red, and blue, Dick crumpled to the ground, heart ripping against his ribs.

“Oh my god,” he breathed, wiping a hand full of grit and rust over his face. It hurt his bruised cheeks. What had he done?

“Are you all right, Dick?” Clark’s strong voice was like a breath of fresh air, a welcome distraction from the adrenaline currently evaporating from his body, leaving him weak and shaky.

“Not really,” Dick replied on a pressurized sigh, chest still heaving from the chase. The shitty, in-need-of-paving street crunched as Clark set down and walked over to where Dick was beginning to shake all over.

“Come on,” Clark beckoned, and between his fingers, Dick saw Superman extending his hand. “Let’s get you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexy, apology sex to come ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> APOLOGY SEX :DDD

Dick stumbled into the mansion, leaning heavily into Bruce, whose arm was wrapped firmly around Dick’s waist. The bright lights from all the camera shutters were still blinking in Dick’s eyes as the front doors clanged shut behind them. The clunk of the lock signaled Dick to push away from Bruce’s solid frame.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Dick grumbled, even though his thigh burned at the weight. The bullet had been through and through thankfully, missing any important bits of muscle or vein. Either Slade wasn’t aiming for a debilitating shot, or he’d missed. Dick smiled to himself, knowing the answer.

“Dick,” the energetic voice came out of nowhere, no one but Alfred and Bruce had been on the steps of manor, making platitudes and thank yous to the press. Dick had been exhausted, leaning against Bruce’s shoulder as Superman gave his statement. Flying over the small town, on alert when he’d heard Dick’s scream—blasting away the unknown assailant. Dick had chuckled when he found out no one knew it had been Deathstroke who’d kidnapped him, not even his own family. And when Clark had revealed that it was in fact Deathstroke—given away by his orange and black signature armor, the Waynes elected to keep that information to themselves. 

Too many connections between Nightwing and Deathstroke and now Deathstroke and Dick Grayson. Clark had taken off into the sky with a boom, but Dick knew the supe would be back, detouring through the Batcave soon. But now Tim had appeared from who knew where and was now crashing into Dick’s side.

Dick grunted, the impact jostling his shoulder, now in a sling, and his dislocated thumb, on the same arm which was strapped into a brace.

“Hey, Tim,” Dick sighed, returning the embrace with his good arm. His thoughts were elsewhere though as Tim babbled his anxiety, and how glad he was that Dick was alive. No, Dick was thinking about Slade—the single low ‘What’ before Clark had blasted him blocks away.

“Thought you’d be dead by now.” That was Jason, propped against the door frame. His hands were shoved in his pockets, but Dick could see the lines of worry on Jason’s face, etched there over the past few days. Jason was in his typical ratty jeans and jacket, hair ruffled and loose. He’d apparently escaped the groping cougar.

Dick smiled weakly, “Well, I lived, so you’re stuck with me.” Tim pulled away after a final squeeze.

“We’re all very glad you are back, Master Dick,” Alfred intoned, showing his fuss by taking Dick and Bruce’s coats, cautious of Dick’s sling.

“I am too,” Dick replied absently but he was already moving deeper into the manor, pulling out his phone as he limped up the stairs. “Good night.”

The sound of footsteps from the study told Dick Clark had made it back but Dick was already half way up the stairs. Clark stepped into the foyer with a brief, “Hey,” dropping a kiss on Bruce’s cheek. Dick waved when he felt everyone’s gaze on him, phone in hand before he was swallowed up by the endless halls of the manor.

Now, locked in his suite of rooms, Dick scrolled through his contacts. He hadn’t had a chance to call Slade yet. Not with the chase, and Clark’s rescue. Being shuttled into a hospital and getting films and prodded by doctors. Then the press flooding in as Dick was escorted from the hospital doors to the SUV. And finally, the press that had shown up at the steps of Wayne manor. While Dick was laying in his hospital bed as a doctor reset his thumb and a nurse strapped him into a brace, Dick had managed to type of a single line of text.

 _Call me_.

Now, Dick’s line was ringing as he leaned against his dark wood door, staring at the edge of his area rug. A stone sitting heavy in his gut. The voicemail tone beeped before Dick could think of something to say. He flexed his fingers before taking a breath.

“Um, hey. So, we need to talk. I’ll be back in Blüdhaven on Friday. Find me.”

Dick ended the call, hand falling from his ear as he slid down his door. His heart was loud in his ears—what if Slade had run to the League of Shadows to out Dick and his family? Logically, he knew he needed to tell his family. Warn them that Dick might have just put targets on their backs. The Justice League might need to take them in, stick them in the Watchtower for the rest of their lives. Fuck, what had he done?

Dick shook his head.

First, he needed to shower. Wash away the hospital germs and grease he always felt after speaking to the press and tabloids. Dick dragged himself up the door and padded into his suite, kicking off his shoes as he went. His back was majorly sore; being slammed into asphalt wasn’t good for the body. Cracking the door to his bathroom, Dick struggled out of his clothes, peeled off his sling and brace just for his shower. Dick plastic wrapped the bandages on his thigh—his bathroom was stocked to the bursting with any medical supply he might need, given the nature of his night activities.

The shower was warm but short and he fumbled the towel around his waist and resecured his thumb brace, leaving his sling for when he was dressed. Water dripped from his damp curls as he threw open the second bathroom door, connecting it to his bedroom. Dick shouted when a shadow moved against his window.

“Bruce, what the fuck? Get out,” Dick snapped, clutching his injured hand close.

“Guess again,” a deep, smooth voice came from the other side of the room.

Eyebrows hiking to his hairline, Dick lunged for his lamp. Slade was illuminated in a wash of dim gold light, leant against the windowsill of what hand been Dick’s locked window. He was dressed in civvies now, no mask or Deathstroke armor in sight. Broad arms were crossed over his chest, and only a simple black eye patch covered his missing eye.

“That was some act you pulled, _Nightwing_ ,” Slade drawled, and Dick flinched at the touch of venom behind his hero name.

“You can’t blame me for that,” Dick snapped, moving to his dresser in search of clothes. He didn’t feel like having this particular conversation naked.

“No, I can’t.” The leather of Slade’s jacket rustled as he pushed off the windowsill. “But I can blame you for not telling me sooner. Maybe before I dislocated your shoulder. Hell, maybe before I started shooting at you.”

“We’ve hurt each other plenty of times,” Dick dismissed, hissing as he tugged a t-shirt over his head.

“In our _costumes,_ ” Slade stressed, “Not as ourselves.”

Dick whirled on him, even though Slade remained across the room. “What was I supposed to do?” Dick whisper-shouted. “You’re part of the League of Shadows and kill people for a living. Was I supposed to take off my mask the first time we fucked and give you ammunition to take out my entire family?”

“My occupation has never bothered you before,” Slade said darkly.

“Yes! Slade. It has and it does. Just like how me being a hero bothers you. I thought we _ignored_ those facts because—” Dick huffed, yanking on a pair of loose shorts. He leaned against the dresser for balance, back turned. “There were other things to focus on.”

Knowing his cheeks were flushed only made them flush more and made Dick grateful that he’d only turned on a lamp. He’d barely caught those irresponsible words from falling from his lips. Slade and Dick had had a relationship of a certain description for close to a decade. When Slade had offered what Dick was sorely lacking at the time—someone who believed in him. Even if it was just his fighting potential, at the time. Slade’s interest had planted a very dangerous seed in Dick, one that had grown into a very dangerous…attachment. At least on Dick’s part. 

That didn’t mean Dick couldn’t be smart about it though.

“So, you would rather have me shoot and kill you than reveal your identity?” Slade’s voice lost its edge and was closer. At least a few feet away.

“I was protecting my family, Slade,” Dick reaffirmed, reassuring himself more than anything. “Is this going to be a problem I need to take care of?”

Dick let the veiled threat hang in the hair between them, even though Dick was still turned away from Slade and his piercing gaze. Goosebumps raced over his skin as he felt a puff of breath on his nape. A light chuckle brushed Dick’s ear. Dick stared at the wall.

“No, little bird,” Slade murmured against Dick’s hair. “Your secret is safe with me.”

The rustle of fabric heralded Slade’s hands sliding across Dick’s hips. Dick stiffened, breath coming in little huffs now.

“On one condition.”

Dick’s lips thinned, waited for Slade’s demand even as hands brushed along his ribs.

Slade’s voice was slow and sweet like honey, “Let me make up for the damage I caused.” He pressed a kiss to Dick’s neck, inviting, questioning.

Dick’s hand balled against the dresser. “Slade,” Dick breathed, tilting his head to expose more of his throat. “I’m tired.”

“Then I’ll do all the work.” Slade swept Dick’s feet off the ground in a gross display of strength and bridal carried him to Dick’s large, amply cushioned bed. Dick groaned under his breath, nose tucked into Slade’s throat and let him. Slade smelled like Slade now, gunmetal and his dumb ‘for men’ soap instead of Deathstroke’s ash and whet stone.

Slade set Dick on the black and grey comforter with a care that made his chest ache, rough hands dragging down Dick’s bare legs as Slade straightened. “I should have known it was you the second you opened your mouth with a gun to your head,” Slade said, shedding his jacket with a roll of his shoulders, stripping his shirt with one fluid tug.

“You didn’t know when I pulled that gun on you?” Dick said behind a grin, looking down the bed to where Slade was knocking off his boots. But he was already breathless, Slade’s presence took up the entire room, rippling over Dick.

Slade chuckled as he kicked off his jeans with the ease of a tiger. “I found that amusing,” Slade replied. Dick yelped when Slade’s hands locked around his ankles and yanked him down the bed. “You were cute,” Slade pressed a kiss to the inside of Dick’s ankle, “your hair all wet and dripping.” A kiss to his other ankle. “Your eyes are so blue. I never knew they were blue,” Slade murmured almost absently. Kneeling on the edge of the bed, hands drifted up Dick’s legs, his thigh twitching as long callused fingers grazed the edge of his bandages.

The lamp light cut Slade’s abs in sharp relief, accentuated just how cut Slade really was. Dick was still amazed that he’d managed to outrun Slade for as long as he did. His breath was short as Slade loomed over him. The threat was gone now, a different sort of adrenaline flushing through his veins.

“You were very terrifying,” Dick whispered, eyes wide, watching Slade lavish kisses along the inside of his thigh. The fingers of his injured hand curled against his stomach, eyes fluttering closed.

“That’s my job, little bird,” a little whimper escaped his lips as Slade whispered the name against his skin. “To be the big… bad… wolf.” Slade dug his teeth into the flesh of Dick’s good leg, eliciting a squeak.

“Did you—” Dick was breathing through his nose, tilting his head into the pillows, “—mean to shoot me where you did?”

Slade scraped his nails along Dick’s hamstrings, a shiver cascading up his body. “Femoral artery. You were a fast little shit.” The rumble of Slade’s voice shot straight to Dick’s cock. Slade had missed, otherwise, Dick would have been dead a block away from that apartment. A quick tug had Dick’s shorts dangling off one ankle. Exposing the throbbing hard-on between Dick’s thighs.

“What about—”

Slade’s hand clapped over Dick’s mouth, fingers digging into the meat of his cheeks. “Shut. Up.”

Dick shivered at the deep timbre pressed into his skin, the command as Slade wrapped Dick’s legs around his waist. Placing Slade’s rigid cock painfully close to Dick. Moon and lamp light swirled together in Slade’s single glittering eye, watching him with predatory focus. He nodded gently, fingers curling into the comforter.

“Good,” Slade rumbled, but his hand remained where it was, muffling Dick’s breathing. “Where’s your lube, little bird?”

Dick made a noise in the back of his throat, all hormones and heat as he stretched his good arm above his head, digging beneath his pillows to pull out the small bottle of plain lube. Slade’s eyebrow cocked as he took it from Dick’s hand and popped the cap. The click shivered through Dick’s bones. Flexing his hand with threatening strength, Slade let it fall from Dick’s mouth, who took in a shuddering breath as lube dribble over the man’s fingers.

“I almost lost you a few times,” Slade intoned, leaning into the circle of Dick’s legs. “When you were running.” A single, slick finger touched the line of Dick’s hip—a warm threat. Slade was silent for a moment, watching his own finger drag down the V of Dick’s abs, just grazing where his thigh met his groin. Dick didn’t dare say anything, not with the stillness settling over Slade’s body. “The only way I kept track of you was the blood.”

Dick gasped as Slade’s other hand was suddenly wrapped around his injured thigh—lightly, caressing. The blood pouring out of Dick’s thigh as he ran and ran. Muscles twitched beneath the gentle squeeze of Slade’s grip but his thoughts drained out of his head when cool fingers curled around his cock.

Groaning, Dick arched into the touch. The smooth stroke of Slade’s palm, lighting sparks in his stomach, twinging through his hypersensitive skin. Eyes fluttering closed, Dick’s mouth fell open. He struggled to keep his shoulder still. Rhythmic movements stoked the fire in his gut, rolling his hips into Slade’s touch. 

Dick almost screamed when Slade replaced his hand with his mouth, swallowed him down in one go.

“Slade,” Dick whined, hand reaching down to twine in Slade’s shaggy white hair. His head bobbed, tongue grazing the underside of Dick’s cock with blinding sensation. Brows furrowing together, Dick’s hips bucked, but an iron hand pinned him down. Leaving Dick to squirm and mewl as Slade took him into his throat. He swallowed around Dick, bursting sparks—both pleasurable and borderline painful—through his legs. Dick dug his heels into Slade’s back as he relentlessly bobbed, swallowed, licked. His mind numbed, restricted and pinned as Slade’s hot mouth moved over him.

Slade pulled off briefly, wiping the corner of his mouth with a thumb, his other hand returning to stroke Dick along. Spreading beads of pre-come over the sensitive head.

“Your legs look much better spread than bound to a chair,” Slade murmured, tongue darting out to lick over his bottom lip. “Though we might have to revisit the handcuffs.” He leaned over Dick, whose eyes had just barely opened—Slade’s nose brushed Dick’s, his single eye sparkling. In a sinful whisper, Slade said, “And maybe the gag.”

Dick shuddered, and Slade swept Dick’s open mouth up in a searing kiss. Domineering tongue pushing into Dick’s mouth, pinning him to the bed by entirely other means. Dick tilted his chin, exposing more of his neck as he dove into the kiss, a shuddering relief bleeding through his skin. This was the Slade he knew—the Slade Dick could never resist. The Slade he always called or texted when Bruce pissed him off or the night had been long and hard. This was not Deathstroke—this was his Slade.

Slade speared a single lubed finger into him and Dick whined into the kiss. His mouth opened wider in a pant, but Slade kept going, tongue licking along the roof of Dick’s mouth. Slade’s finger thrust deeper, tightening the thighs around his waist. Back and forth and deep in a steady rhythm as Slade ravished Dick’s mouth.

“God,” Dick gritted between his teeth as Slade squeezed a second finger in beside the first, hooking on his rim to stretch him out. Slade moved to Dick’s throat, nipping along the skin before pausing to suck another bruise into Dick’s neck. Embarrassingly high. “Slade, I—”

“I thought I told you to shut up,” Slade growled, curling the fingers inside him. Dick groaned and let his head fall back, pushing himself deeper on those fingers. “Gonna mark you up so you can’t ever hide what you are again.” Slade bit down into the meat of Dick’s good shoulder, t-shirt stretched and tugged aside. “Mine.”

Sobbing, sweat beading his skin, Dick raked his hand down Slade’s bare back—leaving marks of his own. Slade groaned into Dick’s skin—and added a third finger as retaliation. Dick squeezed his eyes shut as tears pricked, warmth stinging around the stretch of Slade’s fingers. They spread, stretching him further, wider until Dick was keening into his shoulder. Writhing beneath Slade’s body. 

A knock at his door spilled ice through his veins. But Slade did not move, didn’t stop fucking him on his fingers, bleeding warmth back in. Dick’s cheeks flushed but he managed to speak.

“What!” Dick’s voice cracked, fingers tightening in Slade’s hair as he only bit down harder.

“I just wanted to check on you.” It was Bruce, right outside his bedroom door, in his goddamn suite. Invasive asshole.

“I’m—” Dick swallowed, palm tapping Slade’s nape but he didn’t let up, tugging on his rim like he was trying to get Dick to cry. “I’m fine,” Dick managed, blinking back overwhelming tears. “Fuck off.”

“Dick, I—”

“Fuck _off!_ ” The heat behind Dick’s voice hopefully sounded like annoyance and not the building pleasure from fucking Slade with his teeth in his skin, fingers in his ass.

The punctuated thud of Dick’s exterior door meant he’d have to deal with Bruce’s pouting and guilt later, but right now, his attention was wholly on Slade. Who worked him loose and open, until those tears spilled over Dick’s temples.

The man finally pulled off Dick’s shoulder with an indulgent lick to soothe the stinging bite mark.

Slade’s breath was hot against his ear, fingers finding Dick’s prostate and _pressing_. Stars burst behind his eyes, a moan spilling from his lips. He could _feel_ the man’s smirk.

Slade rumbled in Dick’s ear, “I’m going to fuck you stupid, little one.” Dick shivered. “You won’t be able to walk without thinking of me.” Slade punctuated his claim with a harsh thrust of his fingers, straight into Dick’s prostate. Dick cried out, legs shaking around Slade’s waist. “You’re going to _limp_ about your Daddy’s mansion, everyone doting on you like a spoiled little prince. But all you’ll be able to think about is my cock in your ass.”

“Fuck,” Dick moaned, forearm bracing across Slade’s shoulders. Slade’s broad chest was warm against Dick’s—the opposite of the cold Deathstroke armor. Fingers suddenly pulled out, leaving him spread and empty. Slade nipped Dick’s earlobe as his wet hands settled on Dick’s hips, and _flipped_. Sheets rustled and shifted. Now on his stomach, Dick groaned, a slow pulse moving through his injured shoulder, but the feeling was outmatched by Slade’s hard cock settling between his ass-cheeks.

Slade hummed. “Yes, much better.” His hand slid up the line of Dick’s vertebrae, nails scraping along the sensitive skin. That large hand, responsible for so many deaths—almost Dick’s— locked around the back of his neck and he went boneless. “Like I said, little bird, you’re going to lay there and let me do all the work.” He shifted again, his scarred, muscled body entirely eclipsing Dick’s. Slade squeezed Dick’s neck. “Let me stuff you full of my cock and fuck you until you’re nothing but a quivering little slut beneath me.”

Dick let out a startled moan, Slade’s raspy words, whispered against the back of his head, shooting heat and tension right to his member. Rearing back, Slade smacked Dick’s ass hard enough to sting. But the iron grip on his neck kept him down. Dick hissed between his teeth, jerking in the grip.

“Stay _down_ ,” Slade barked. “That’s for lying,” Slade explained, fingers creeping into Dick’s hair. He yanked Dick’s head up, neck stretching. Dick bared his teeth as the slap throbbed down his leg. It didn’t lessen the erection flush to his stomach.

Dick growled, “Slade—” but another sharp slap to his ass silenced him, had his shoulders curling into the sheets.

“And that’s for not telling me the fucking second you woke up in that apartment,” Slade scolded.

“Slade,” Dick panted, “That’s unfa—aaaaaair!” His voice rang to a squeal as Slade pushed the head of his cock into Dick’s twitching hole. But then turned to a moan as Slade slid deeper, stretching him wider than Slade’s fingers had. Slade leaned back down, a palm just above Dick’s groin dragging his hips up to the perfect angle. A deep stroke, a groan, and Slade was bottoming out. Dick trembled beneath him, ass stinging and pleasure coiling tightly in his gut.

“Quiet,” Slade whispered, layering back over Dick, fingers tracing the nicks and dips of scars as he went. “Just enjoy, little bird.” The weight of Slade over him felt like a safety blanket as he began to move his hips. Dick’s eyes closed once more as the fingers in Dick’s hair loosened and smoothed out, dragging over his scalp. Dick did enjoy, panting heavily as Slade drew back and snapped his hips in again. A breath as he pounded his hips against Dick for a few short, shallow thrusts before setting a gentle but grinding pace, burying his cock as deep as it would go on each stroke.

Groaning, Dick curled his good fingers in the sheets, holding on for dear life as Slade found exactly where Dick’s prostate was. He _punished_ Dick, pounding in faster and faster, a hand digging into his hip, pre-come leaking from Dick’s pulsing cock. But Slade’s nose brushed his nape with a caress that opposed the fucking that had Dick moaning on every other stroke. Lips pressed sweet kisses onto his sweaty skin, migrating along his neck to his shoulder.

Slade wedged a hand underneath Dick’s cheek, pressed to the sheets, and tilted his head, exposing Dick’s mouth. It was a wet sloppy kiss as Slade slammed home, stretching Dick to the point his toes curled. But Slade tasted like mint and his tongue was demanding and the hand along his jaw was firm and powerful. Slipped down his chin and curled around his throat.

“Slade,” Dick moaned, swallowing against hand spanning his throat, touching the pulse roaring in his jugular. He gasped when Slade yanked them up, so Dick sat squarely in his lap, cock buried to the hilt. Aching shoulders pressed to Slade’s chest, Dick let his head fall back onto the assassin’s shoulder. Let his drive his hips up over and over and over until Dick caught the barely perceptible breeze of Slade panting. Dick’s chest prickled, nipples pert as Slade shoved a hand beneath his shirt, settling once more on his throat. He kept his bad hand tucked against his chest, good one stretching to splay over the back of Slade’s head. An anchor point as much as a balance point as his thighs shook, his cock leaky and misused. He whined, “Please.”

The hand around his throat squeezed, enough that Dick strained to swallow before he released.

“Begging already,” Slade panted, but a gentle thumb caressed his cheekbone—Dick’s bruised cheekbone. An apology if Slade ever gave one. “Turning into a needy little whore.”

Dick shivered, bad hand flexing, but he nodded as his stomach burned. “Yes. Please, please.” His hips twitched in rhythm with Slade’s thrusts, just sore enough that he let Slade take all his weight. Dick’s cock bobbed against his stomach, and he felt Slade’s eyes fall to where pre-come dripped profusely. The incessant nailing of his prostate wasn’t helping.

“What a messy little cock slut.” Dick nodded incessantly, length straining. Slade sighed, teeth grazing Dick’s earlobe. “What are you going to give me,” he murmured, hand creeping down over Dick’s hip, fingertips grazing the tip of Dick’s cock. He thrust towards Slade’s touch—but the assassin pulled away. Dick whined, head lifting off Slade’s shoulder to take Slade’s mouth. The kiss was as sinful as it was hot, wet and open mouthed and sloppy. Desperate.

The finally assassin obliged. Curling firm fingers around the length of his member, Slade began stroking in rhythm with his thrusts.

Dick sobbed against Slade’s mouth, back arching as Slade fucked him like he was being punished. Dick wanted to be punished, a burst of heat when Slade bit his lip before letting him go. Focusing on fucking Dick senseless. Dick turned his face into Slade’s muscled throat, licking his lips, muscles tingling as the relentless throb of pleasure buzzed through him.

“You’re so beautiful, sat on my cock,” Slade murmured against Dick’s sweaty skin. His fingers continued to dance over the bruises on both of Dick’s cheeks. “Missed you like this. I was thinking of you in that apartment, while you were mouthing off to my face when I didn’t even know it was you.”

Dick’s pulsing length twitched in Slade’s hand, imagining Slade’s intense gaze watching him from behind that Deathstroke mask.

“I was thinking to myself,” Slade continued, hand dipping to cup Dick’s balls. Squeeze. “This kid has a mouth on him, just like Nightwing. And then I started thinking about the next time I was going to see you, and what I was going to shove in your mouth to shut you up.” A finger tipped against Dick’s swollen, wet lips. “I sat in that chair while _Richard Grayson_ was bound up on that couch thinking of gagging _you_ on my dick.”

Dick shuddered, imagining Slade crossing that room and yanking down his tux pants—fucking him into the ratty cushions of that couch.

“Wanted you so bad that night,” Dick panted. “Was gonna find you after that gala.”

Slade hummed, circling his hips on an indulgent stroke. “Desperate,” Slade half-scolded, “I bet you would have let me fuck you on whatever roof we ended up on.”

Dick nodded, blurry eyes catching on Slade’s jaw.

“I’m surprised no other villain has made the connection.” Slade’s tongue dragged up the column of his throat, fingers dipping into his mouth. “You and your trust-fund baby persona are too much alike. So much alike that the second you opened your mouth, my mind jumped to fucking Nightwing against a wall.”

Dick’s mouth closed around Slade’s fingers, moaning around them as Slade kept drilling into his ass. Slade was living up to his word—Dick was beginning to shake and quiver all over as Slade kept hitting his prostate, but never enough to get him _there_.

Slade grunted, rough enough that Dick could tell Slade was close. The hand wrapped back around his cock, and Dick tugged on Slade’s hair. Slade dragged his spit-soaked fingers along Dick’s cheek. “Do you wanna come?’

“Yes, yes, yes,” Dick sobbed, feeling that knot of pleasure tighten and tighten. He was so _close_.

“Come for me, little bird.”

Dick’s hips stuttered, balls tightening as Slade snapped up a final time. The build of tension and warmth and tingling exploded in his gut, come spattering up onto his stomach as his vision whited out. Digging his forehead into Slade’s neck, he muffled his stammering moans. A moment later, Slade jerked, and Dick felt warmth fill him up. Slade’s cock throbbed inside of him, emptying his balls into Dick’s ass.

Panting, Slade dropped Dick’s limp body onto his bed like a used toy, slipping out but following soon after. Dick just lay there, twitching with aftershocks and pleasant aches in his injuries as Slade nuzzled up behind him. An arm snaked around his waist, a firm, comforting weight.

“I don’t,” Dick breathed, leaning back into Slade, “think you’re gonna be able to stay here.”

“Kicking me out already?” Slade purred.

“My family is too nosy to not burst into my room tonight.”

“Ahh,” Slade replied, mostly ignoring him, laying kisses on Dick’s battered cheek, down his jaw. He stilled. “Wait, does this make the billionaire, playboy Bruce Wayne, Batman?”

Dick smiled lazily, stretching his sore leg down the bed. “Just putting that together?”

Slade groaned, squeezing Dick’s waist. “I’m guessing Todd and Drake are Red Hood and Robin?”

“I plead the fifth on that one,” Dick muttered, feeling his exhaustion tugging at him—even if he was all sticky and sweaty. “I’m serious about the nosy stuff.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Slade murmured, nose buried in Dick’s hair. “I’ll be gone before anyone comes looking.”

But not right now. Right now, Slade trailed placating kisses over Dick’s neck, gently rubbing at his hip. The touch soothed whatever panic still lingered in his chest from the past few days. Slade planted a final kiss on Dick’s swollen, red mouth before curling up around him.

Dick felt safer than he had in months.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some shower sex for those looking for some emotional vulnerability. But not too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle filth :D

Dick groaned, rolling over to check the clock on his nightstand, but hit a solid wall of muscle before he could. Groggy and sore, Dick couldn’t quite remember who he’d allowed in his bed. He hissed when he tried to explore the warm expanse and his shoulder twinged in complaint. The sling was still in his bathroom. Oh.

His eyes seemed to creak as he opened them. And found Slade’s sleeping face buried in his hair. Dick smiled, stretching his good arm across his chest to run his fingers through Slade’s white beard. A deep rumble vibrated from Slade’s chest into Dick’s back.

“You’re supposed to be gone,” Dick mumbled but kept smiling anyway.

“And leave this?” Slade’s hand squeezed Dick’s bare ass. He shifted a thigh between Dick’s legs, possessive and large.

Dick breathed in, nose crinkling as he caught the god-awful whiff of stale sex. “It smells terrible in here.”

“I can fix that,” Slade murmured, strong arms sliding around Dick’s limp body. Dick was scooped up, settled against Slade’s massive chest and carried back into his bathroom. Even if Dick tried to protest, Slade had none of it, squeezing the backs of Dick’s legs.

“I can wash myself,” Dick grumbled, shoving noncommittally at Slade’s chest. Ultimately, he let Slade stand him in his shower and cut on the water. It wasn’t until it was cozy warm when Slade picked him up like a ragdoll and plunked him in the fogged glass stall, peeling the thumb brace from Dick’s hand as he went. The water hit his chest, sluicing away the initial mess still crusted on his stomach.

“Do you feel good, little bird,” Slade whispered against his dripping black hair. Slade stood lined along Dick’s back, acting as support as the water rippled along his skin. He leaned his head onto Slade’s muscled shoulder.

“Mmm, I could feel better,” Dick admitted teasingly, eyes half-lidded. The fingers of his good hand grazed along Slade’s thigh, crept up.

A dark chuckle and Slade’s hands were wrapping around Dick’s hips, turning his lithe body about face. So, Dick was face to face with the wide expanse of Slade’s lightly haired, damp chest. Face to face with Slade’s returning smirk. “I could also help with that,” he growled, hands suddenly on Dick’s ass, hoisting him up. Instead of slamming Dick against the smooth tiles of his shower, Slade pressed him flat with the utmost gentility, water curling between them. The smoke in Slade’s eye sent a shiver through Dick’s aching body, cock already pulsing.

“Then help me,” Dick purred, strong legs lacing around Slade’s waist in challenge.

Slade growled, teeth flashing. The water plastered Slade’s hair against his forehead but made no barrier as his lips brushed Dick’s. His eyes stayed half open as Slade pressed against him, tilting his chin up with the pressure of his kiss. Dick moaned in the back of his throat, good arm bracing across Slade’s shoulders. The heavy length of Slade’s cock slid between Dick’s legs.

Fingers from both of his hands hooked on the rim of Dick’s hole, stretching him back open till he whined. Slade rumbled against Dick’s mouth, “Mmm, you’re still slick and dripping with my come, little one.” Dick panted, tongue darting against Slade’s lips. Slade punctuated his words with the easy slide of his cock into Dick’s ass.

He moaned, head falling back against the tiles, relishing the burst of all his aches around the stretch. Dick kept his injured arm pinned between them, but it didn’t stop Slade from pressing their fronts together, trapping Dick’s cock.

“Hush, baby,” Slade soothed, mouth against Dick’s throat. “I’ve got you.”

Dick’s back slid against the slick tiles with every slow thrust of Slade’s hips, powerful thighs holding both of their weights with supernatural ease. Slade bottomed out and stilled, breathing against Dick’s wet skin, letting Dick’s hole stretch and relax around him.

Slade whispered, “My beautiful boy,” digging his teeth into an already sore bite, staining the skin with deeper, blacker color. “I should just keep you.”

“Slade,” Dick groaned, tucking his face into the crook of Slade’s neck and letting him use his body. Tears pricked the corners of Dick’s eyes. Probably courtesy of the exhaustion and the pain from his injuries and the crashing adrenaline from the past few days. He hid his face in Slade’s neck, something in his chest tightening at the idle thought. He whimpered, “Keep me.”

The crease of Slade’s smirk burned along Dick’s throat, mouth moving up to press against Dick’s temple. “Maybe I’ll collar and leash you,” Slade went on, sliding in to the hilt. “Keep you close so you don’t get into trouble again.”

Dick clenched around Slade’s thick cock, buried deep inside him, at the thought. Just imagining the weight of a tight leather collar buckled around his throat. He remembered the weight of it well, when Slade relentlessly pursued him as Robin—intent on changing his loyalties. Dick hadn’t had a choice back then. But then Batman had given his cherished title of Robin to Jason and turned his back on Dick. And Dick had sought Slade out, whether his intent had been to fight or fuck, he couldn’t remember, but he’d ended up with a few broken bones and tied to a dirty mattress. Naked. Gagged. Collared.

To say Slade had fucked bruises into him was an understatement.

“Oh my god,” Dick moaned, scratching angry red lines into Slade’s skin. His throat constricted, teeth clenching. “Fuck me harder,” he begged, memories of that night bubbling beneath his skin.

Slade’s fingers tightened around where they’d slid to his legs. “No, baby,” Slade crooned, nose brushing the wet line of his hair. “I don’t think I will. I’m gonna take my sweet time and fuck my seed back into your warm little hole.”

Dick shuddered, nuzzling Slade’s cheek, mouth open and pleading. Slade’s mouth swept up over Dick’s, wet and sloppy and full of tongue. Dick’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, surrendering to the sensation of Slade’s dominating mouth, rocking his hips against Dick’ firm ass. He could feel the leftover release slicking the path for Slade’s thrusts, pressing too softly against his prostate. Much too softly for Dick to be orgasming anytime soon.

In fact, by the time Dick finally came, cock throbbing and twitching as he splattered against his own stomach, tears were actually sliding down his cheeks. Hidden by the stream of water. Legs clenching down on Slade’s waist, throat exposed to Slade’s possessive teeth. Slade came a few minutes later, fucking his seed back into Dick until his hips stuttered. Until Slade was claiming Dick’s mouth once more.

Trying and failing to soothe the heat from his face, Dick leaned his head back against the stall wall. Callused fingers caressed Dick’s cheek. “My gorgeous boy,” Slade murmured, brushing his nose in an eskimo kiss. It felt like Slade might never let Dick go. They just stood there, breathing.

But eventually, Slade let Dick down, his feet curling against the wet tiles. Slade didn’t back away, brought his muscled arms up. Caging Dick against the wall. Their height difference forced him to look up the six inches into Slade’s steamy eye. His cheeks flushed, a hand bracing on Slade’s stomach.

“It’s a pity I don’t have a plug on me, little bird,” Slade purred. “I’d stuff you up and make you sit with my come all day.”

Dick shivered, eyes half-mast. “I would…” Dick swallowed thickly, noticing Slade’s already half-hard cock. “I would like to get some sleep sometime this week. And I know for a fact Tim will come in here uninvited by four.”

Slade’s eyebrow arched, the back of his finger brushing along Dick’s sharp jaw. “Fine,” Slade conceded, “But I intend to continue this later. When we’re not in the Bat’s den.”

Dick leaned into the touch. “How did you even get in here?”

A smirk pulled at Slade’s lips, finger trailing down Dick’s throat, his collarbone, to point an accusatory finger at Dick’s heart. “We should keep a few things secret between us.”

Dick hummed, leisurely licking at Slade’s parted lips. “I guess.”

Slade did Dick the favor of helping him clean up, keeping Dick from using his injured arm to wash away the mess they’d made. A few smothered attempts to get another fuck out of Dick and they were finally finished with cleaning the remnants of their sex. Leaving only the scent of Dick’s sharp clean soap and damp hair. Slade didn’t even allow Dick to walk back out of his bathroom on his stiff, sore legs or put on his own boxers. Their parting act was a hard, possessive kiss as Slade set Dick back on his bed.

Slade left the way he came, through the window.

Dick flopped back in his bed, comforter stripped off and laying on the floor. He’d have to launder that himself later. He was left with cleans sheets and a fluffy blanket he’d asked Slade to pull from his closet. Definitely going to be limping tomorrow. He strapped his thumb brace back on, tugging his blanket up to his chin. 

He heard the footsteps before his door creaked open.

“Hi Tim,” Dick whispered through the dark of his room.

Tim didn’t reply as he padded across his carpet and crawled into bed beside him. “I knew you were fine,” Tim muttered, even as he burrowed under Dick’s blanket.

Dick smiled, snaking his good arm around Tim’s slim shoulders. Tim was so young—older than Dick had been when he’d taken on Robin. But now Dick was older, every time he looked at Tim, he wondered how the fuck he’d ever done this at age nine, let alone his teenage years.

“I was fine,” Dick replied, squeezing his little brother close. “Never in any danger. Is Jason still here?”

“He’s actually staying in his old room tonight,” Tim said, skin warm and delicate. “Claims because of all the news crews and tabloids still hanging around. Doesn’t wanna risk being followed or pestered.”

They both knew that was most definitely not the reason. Any of them could easily escape the prying eyes of the news.

Dick couldn’t help the smirk as he closed his eyes to finally get a few hours of solid sleep he’d had in four days, Tim cuddled up and already dozing.

* * *

It had been a few weeks since the kidnapping and wild chase through abandoned streets. Only ended without a bullet between his eyes thanks to Superman at the last possible fucking minute. Dick’s shoulder was mostly healed, a little stiff according to Alfred, who’d forced him to attend PT at the Batcave at least twice a week. The gunshot was still twinging a little but at least his thumb was fully healed.

Dick was standing at the top of a thirty-floor skyscraper in the business district, breathing in the familiar scent of Blüdhaven. Finally, back in his city. Alfred, Bruce, and even Tim had kept Dick hostage in the Manor for a week after he’d gotten back from the hospital. Clark had hung around too, under the guise of concern for Dick.

 _Getting kidnapped by the world’s best assassin in your civvies is no joking matter_.

Dick knew his kidnapping was only an excuse for Clark to spend time with Bruce. With all the League shit, they barely had any down time together. Dick had snuck down to the kitchen early one morning, only to find Clark half in the fridge, wearing boxers with a giant black and yellow bat on his ass. And a few very noticeable bite marks along his spine, already fading with his accelerated healing. Horror had struck him still in the kitchen doorway, imagining what Bruce and Clark did behind closed doors. Clark had pulled out of the fridge, a cookie hanging half out of his mouth and found Dick frozen on the entrance. Clark had smiled his boy scout smile and disappeared back into the Manor with an armful of food.

Dick shook himself of the greasy feeling of that memory, finally spotting his target. A smirk slashed his face in the dark city lights. And he jumped.

Wind rushed past him as he fell, adrenaline climbing higher and higher with the high of the fall. Sound ripped out of his ears and he resisted the urge to whoop. Fifteen stories down and Dick shot his grappling gun for the adjacent building across the street. His anchor caught and the line tensed, snapping taut with Dick’s weight as he swung his legs forward, aiming his boots. Dick grinned, grapple disengaging just before his boots made impact with broad, armor plated shoulder blades.

The impact knocked his target to the ground with a grunt and Dick flew through the momentum, tucking into a front flip with his hands planted on the roof’s surface and rolling through another flip before catching himself. Turning to find a snarling assassin clad in orange and black, dragging himself out of the dirt. Dick flashed a grin.

“You’re it,” he chirped, winking even though he knew Slade couldn’t see beneath his domino. And took off at a run, leaping to the next roof and the next and the next. His heart thudded in his chest as he ran, shooting his grappling across ravines too big to jump, scaling fire escapes and construction scaffolding up and down. All while baring his teeth in a feral grin.

This was the last time they’d be exchanging ‘its’ tonight. Once Dick was caught this time, the game was over, and the prize would be revealed.

Dick didn’t dare turn to see if Slade was flat out chasing him, or if he’d chosen to anticipate where he’d go. Cut him off. It didn’t matter as Dick blasted through his city, eventually scurrying down to street level to maybe throw Slade off his trail. The last time Slade had chased him, Slade had needed to catch him. Kill him per his orders—Dick still needed to find out who the fuck had ordered the kidnapping in the first place. There had been money on the line then. But now, Slade _wanted_ to catch Dick. Which meant a whole other slough of deliciously filthy things.

And Dick had made sure to piss him off even more with each trade of ‘its.’ Attacks growing bolder and more annoying. Blind-sided shots like a kick in the back out of fucking nowhere. Yeah, Slade was pissed. It only made Dick smile more. His breath burned through his lungs, legs pumping as he slid around a corner, suit in camouflage mode to avoid catching the eye of the cars bleeding down the streets so early in the morning. Dick grabbed the corner of a building, swinging himself down the alley and into the fire escapes ladder.

He scaled it, level by level, muscles pulling and beginning to ache.

Jason was in Blüdhaven tonight, so Dick had let his patrol slip a little early in favor of tracking down and pissing off Slade who had texted him yesterday that he was in the city. Dick scaled the fire escape by levels instead of stairs, hauling himself up with mostly his back muscles. He reached the roof, taking a moment to check the street below him. When he saw no shift of black or flash of orange, Dick turned back to the roof and burst into another sprint. Relishing the pull of tiring muscles. He aimed his grapple at the next skyscraper, roof towering above him and shot. He swung across the face of the building, wondering when the other shoe was going to drop when his grapple line snapped. And then he was falling through the air, not too many stories, but it would hurt.

But he wasn’t looking for a grapple gun reload because his line hadn’t failed by itself. Dick dropped into a set of steel-lined arms, his face coming inches from a snarling mouth.

“Got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some extra dirty filth next chapter. :D


End file.
